Review: Christmas

Christmas this year was nearly flawless.

I won't get into an itemized list of loot—I'm at least five years older than finding that awesome—but I will say that the gifts for all of us were very well-received by their intended targets; that I procured a couple books, one of which I had never heard of but which had great promise; and that I have now added to my day that great modern ritual that is delay-brewed coffee. The biggest gift news, of course, is that I am typing this blog entry from the keyboard of Wednesday, King of the Acer, the new Aspire laptop that has joined my little family of inanimate objects I talk to like roommates. (Tenbones, the Vaio who had been my previous literary companion, is now retired and living out his dotage in continued service to Tyler and country.) So, everybody please try to make the young'n feel welcome, and be glad for old Tenbones, now consigned to being the computer full of music and movies and the occasional CD.

More than presents, however, this year really was about family. I've heard it said that Christmas really is better for adults than for kids, and while I miss some of the magic it held as a child, I have to agree. As an adult, I can be enchanted by the lengths to which NORAD went with their Santa tracker; I can appreciate the joy of others unwrapping their presents as much as myself; I can enjoy the little things like a drink with my dad or the joy of waking up to the smell of breakfast casserole. This year drove it home in occasionally painful, but almost always exultant ways. The only bad part about it is that Santa left us for another year, and I was forced to come back south and tackle all the mundanity again.

But soon, I tell myself, it will be New Year's. Soon there will be celebration. And every morning, or at least the mornings on which supplies do not run low, there will be fresh-brewed cups of dark coffee, ready for me to drink.

One last time, before I let this part of the holiday slip by: Merry Christmas, everybody.

Christmastime, Pretty Baby

I think my writing work is taking a nap for the holidays.

That's right; today is the last day of the grind, and then after a night with a houseguest it's off to the Great Green North of Mendocino County.

My Christmas got off to the exact right start this weekend, as I received a present from a new friend who I keep insisting can't possibly be that new, and an old friend whose company I had not shared in a long while. I am now the proud owner of my first Christopher Moore book; and of a black piece of canvas that says, simply, "What Would You Attempt if You Knew You Could Not Fail?".

I nearly teared up opening that one. It is now proudly displayed in my living room, in full view of my armchair, where I will sit, and read Christopher Moore, and think that I know exactly what I would attempt—and I'm attempting it nearly every day. Fantastic timing on that one.

So, just one more day; just a few more QA jobs; and then it's the long drive and the foggy windows and the constant winding greenery that leads to my house (and yes, the hotel that looks like a golf course fucking a salmon run). My aunt will put on her reindeer pajamas; my father will crank the Elvis Christmas album; and we'll crack more than one bottle of wine and get down to the important business of playing board games, opening presents, and spending time with family. And during that time, we'll all reflect on our year and be grateful for the time to be with each other—though the food may be fattening, though one or two of our usual guests may not make it, though the fireplace may fill the house with smoke, it's Christmas, damn it, and nothing is going to make it anything less than that.

It's likely that I will not have time to blog while I am up there, so I leave you with these thoughts: Whatever holiday you're celebrating, whatever you choose to call it, I hope yours is incredible; and I say to you, with all the best hopes and intentions: Merry Christmas.